It's Amazing. The Moment You

Here's A Strange Fact: Murder A Man, And You Feel Responsible For His Life - ''possessive'', Even. You Know More About Him Than His Father And Mother; They Knew His Fetus, But You Know His Corpse. Only You Can Complete The Story Of His Life, Only You Know Why His Body Has To Be Pushed Into The Fire Before Its Time, And Why His Toes Curl Up And Fight For Another Hour On Earth.

Greenwich Village Always Had Its Share Of Mind Readers, But There Are Many More These Days, And They Seem To Have Moved Closer To The Mainstream Of Life In The City. What Was Crazy 10 Years Ago Is Now Respectable, Even Among The Best-educated New Yorkers.

When I Was Writing 'the White Tiger' I Lived In A Building Pretty Much Exactly Like The One I Described In This Novel, And The People In The Book Are The People I Lived With Back Then. So I Didn't Have To Do Much Research To Find Them.

We Are Made Mysteries To Ourselves By The Rooster Coop We Are Locked In.

I Am Not An Original Thinker-but I Am An Original Listener.)